


Call Me a Thief

by moodlighting



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Fraternities & Sororities, M/M, POV Alternating, hope everyone likes americans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-03-31 16:22:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3984796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodlighting/pseuds/moodlighting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Of all the people on campus, the one person Louis can’t seem to stop running into is Harry fucking Styles. And he keeps stealing all of Louis’ shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call Me a Thief

**Author's Note:**

  * For [teattoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teattoo/gifts).



> Another spin on the ol' "I accidentally broke into your house/apartment because my friend lives next door to you and I was drunk" prompt. I was a bit nervous to pinch-hit but this turned out to be a lot of fun! Enjoy, teattoo!
> 
> Title taken from the classic One Direction hit "Stand Up"

Harry’s been on a bender of a week the morning he wakes up on Louis Tomlinson’s couch. It’s Sig Tau rush week and as vice president, Harry’s been present at all rush festivities since the previous Sunday – pulling late nights all week both to participate in some friendly brotherhood hazing and to catch up on the homework he’d neglected to do during the day. Between going to his classes, organizing bids, buying booze, and coordinating the events for the next day with the rush chair, all homework had been permanently rescheduled to take place solely during the witching hour. Harry can’t remember the last time he had a decent night’s sleep, and he probably hasn’t had even a moment’s worth of sobriety since the charity bar crawl on Thursday.

So really, an error like this was to be expected.

Harry feels like hell when he finally stirs into his sorry excuse for consciousness, and he can already tell he looks even worse than he feels. Opening his eyes proves to be a difficult task when he knows the blinding morning sun will be there to greet him, and it’s even more of a challenge for him to make the world stop spinning when he does manage peel his eyelids apart, just wide enough to take in his surroundings.

Although the room is swirling around him in a nauseating whirl of mismatched furniture, dog-eared textbooks, and a particularly complex bong that Harry can’t quite comprehend in his still-intoxicated state, Harry immediately knows something isn’t right. Niall had been kind enough to let him crash at his apartment last night, but this is definitely not Niall’s apartment. Everything is facing the wrong direction, like the entire room has been flipped. Harry flops a foot down onto the floor to orient himself on his drunk axis, and as his eyes snap into focus, he finally catches sight of the stranger standing across the room from him, looking thoroughly harassed, a cat clutched tightly to his chest. Oddly enough, it’s the baffling picture they create that suddenly makes everything completely clear to Harry: he’s drunkenly broken into a complete stranger’s home.

His stomach lurches queasily with the realization. He means to start apologizing immediately but what comes out instead is, “You’re not Niall.”

The boy blinks and looks down at himself, like he’s checking to make sure that he is not, in fact, Niall. “Noooo,” he replies slowly. “I’m not.”

Inexplicably, the only thing Harry can think to say is, “You’re not supposed to have cats in the dorms.”

The boy makes an indignant noise, turning the cat away from Harry like he’s just insulted it. “You’re one to talk – _you’re_ not supposed to be in my apartment!” he cries. “Who the hell are you, and why are you half-naked on my couch?”

A puzzling question. Harry lifts his heavy, pounding head off the pillow to find that he is indeed shirtless. At least that’s the good half to have naked, he thinks, nodding to himself agreeably. Harry’s fairly certain he went out wearing a minimum of three layers last night, so he’s curious to know what happened to the rest of his clothes. The side of his arm and half of his chest also appear to be covered in several wide, wicked scrapes, which most likely involves an amusing story that Harry will never be able to remember.

Unmoved by both his nudity and his wounds, Harry drops his head back onto the pillow and turns to peer at the stranger again. “M’Harry?” he offers. He doesn’t now he ended up on this foreign couch but he does know his name, at least.

The boy stares back at him, stunned. “I don’t care what your name is, bro! Get the hell out of my apartment!”

“Alright, chill out,” Harry scowls. “You asked.”

Doing as he’s told, Harry struggles to right himself on the couch but quickly ends up with his head in his hands, practicing his Lamaze breathing when a wave of nausea overtakes him. He prays to god he doesn’t barf all over this dude’s floor; that would be even more embarrassing than having unwittingly crashed on his couch.

“Oh, hell no,” the boy exclaims, dropping his cat and rushing over to Harry’s side. He hauls him up off the couch by his armpits and marches them both out of the room. Harry keeps a firm grip on his own face as he’s steered into the bathroom, where he’s promptly dropped onto his knees in front of the toilet.

“M’not gonna throw up,” he mutters sullenly into the bowl, cheek pressed against the cool porcelain.

He hears the door close with a patronizing click just before he starts throwing up.

Leaving what remains of his dignity behind on the bathroom floor, Harry peels himself off the tile when he’s finished to peer sheepishly out the door. The boy is waiting on the other side with a glass of water, which he hands to Harry with an unimpressed raise of his brows.

“Thanks,” Harry mutters, taking it back into the bathroom and rinsing out his mouth, refilling it twice and chugging the water down. He refuses to look at himself in the mirror when he’s in a state like this, but he does catch one passing glimpse of his blotchy face and stringy curls. Harry pouts to himself. This is so humiliating.

When he opens the door again the boy is still standing there, eyebrows still raised.

“Hi,” Harry mumbles. “Erm – could I borrow a shirt, maybe?”

The boy stares at him for a beat, then turns on his heel and walks away. Not knowing where else to go – or what to do to make up for all the trouble he’s causing – Harry returns to the only place he knows: the couch. He flops down into the dip between two worn cushions and rests his head back, hoping death will take him soon and save him both from his impending hangover as well as his future status as a social pariah.

He startles back into alertness when a roll of paper towels bounces off his bare chest and onto the floor. As he bends over to retrieve it, an additional flying tape dispenser hits him on the side of head and falls to the ground. He looks up to find the stranger hovering on the other side of the coffee table, holding a gray t-shirt that Harry assumes will also be thrown at him.

“What’s all this for?” Harry asks.

“Your cuts,” the boy replies. “You’re not gonna get blood all over my shirt.”

Harry looks down at the paper towels and Scotch tape in his hands, unsure of how these particular supplies will help at all. “Don’t you have any band-aids?” he frowns.

“What am I, a doctor?” the boy scoffs. “This is college, like I’d have band-aids just lying around…”

He rounds the coffee table and sits down next to Harry, snatching the paper towels and tape out of his hands. Harry watches on in silence as he starts methodically ripping apart the towels and pre-cutting pieces of tape, lining them up on the edge of the table.

“Lift your arm,” he orders.

Harry obeys and the boy starts pressing paper towel strips to each of his scrapes, fixing them in place with the tape. He makes careful work of it too, making sure not to touch Harry’s body any more than he has to, sealing the tape onto his skin with only the very tips of his fingers. Their silence is long and tense.

“So,” Harry begins after awhile, resting the weight of his elbow on the boy’s head when he ducks under Harry’s arm to work on the cuts. “Since we’re doing all of this… Will you at least tell me what your name is?”

“Louis,” the boy answers blandly, like he’d rather not tell Harry at all but has decided to do so anyway, given the fact that his face is practically in Harry’s armpit.

“Nice to meet you, Louis,” Harry replies politely. “And, er, thanks for doing this.”

Louis just grunts and sticks another piece of tape to his skin.

“I think my friend Niall might be your neighbor,” Harry adds when Louis doesn’t say anything else. He figures Louis deserves an explanation, at the very least. “He was going to let me stay at his place last night but it seems I’m not very good at counting windows when I’m drunk.”

Louis snorts derisively. “Obviously. How’d you even get _in_ here?” he asks, finishing up with the bandages and ducking out from under Harry’s arm to meet his gaze. “I live on the second floor.”

Harry stares back at him, deadpan. “I have long arms.”

A quirk of a smile teases at Louis’ lips but it fades back into a hard, unamused line before Harry even has the chance to smile back. Clearing his throat, Louis stands up from the couch, tosses the gray shirt directly at Harry’s face, and busies himself cleaning up all of the extra tape strips.

“That’s probably how you cut yourself up,” he remarks as he rolls the tape into a spiky ball between his hands. “Dragging yourself in through my window, uninvited.”

Harry shrugs. “Probably,” he agrees, pulling the shirt over his head carefully, not wanting to mess up Louis’ makeshift bandages. He stands up and their eyes meet again across the coffee table. “I’m, uh – I am really, _really_ sorry about this,” Harry stresses, pressing his palms together like a prayer, trying to convey just how sincere he is.

Louis nods once, accepting the apology. “S’fine. Just don’t do it again,” he warns over his shoulder as he escorts Harry to the front door. “Have Niall-my-alleged-neighbor make you an illegal spare key or something.”

Harry smirks, nodding his head to where Louis’ cat has been watching them from its place atop the kitchen counter. “Trying to drag poor Niall into your life of dorm crime, I see how it is.”

Louis narrows his eyes at him and opens the door, motioning Harry out into the hallway. “Please leave now.”

Before walking away, Harry turns back around and smiles at him sunnily. “Bye, Louis,” he chirrups with a wave.

The door slams shut in his face but Harry’s smile only grows wider. When his insides begin to feel all fluttery, Harry knows it’s not because of the alcohol since he just puked all of that up in Louis’ toilet. No, it’s definitely because his thoughts are suddenly occupied entirely by blue eyes and quick hands and even quicker words.

Harry has had some weird morning-afters before, but he could never have expected to find someone so lovely just by falling in through the wrong window.

* *

Of all the people on campus, the one person Louis can’t seem to stop running into is Harry fucking Styles. And he keeps stealing all of Louis’ shit.

It starts with the shirt he borrows him the day they meet.

Louis’ seen Harry around campus before, on the quad with a gaggle of frat guys, passing between classes, studying in the library – normal stuff – but they’d never been introduced, and Louis had never learned his name. Given this, Louis most definitely could never have anticipated finding this unidentified, lanky-ass stranger on his couch on a random sunny Sunday morning in September.

He’s woken up from his peaceful slumber when his roommate Liam begins gently shaking his shoulder. Liam’s probably heading off for his morning run, as per usual, but Louis has threatened Liam explicit bodily harm if he were ever to wake Louis up before eleven a.m. on a weekend. That’s how he knows something is up.

“What,” Louis grunts, not removing his face from where it’s resting in a puddle of drool on his pillow.

“Bro, did you bring a guy home last night?” Liam asks.

Louis cracks open an eye and sees Liam, a vision in athletic gear, his patented “concerned face” firmly in place.

“No?” Louis questions.

Liam’s face gets impossibly more concerned. “There’s a guy passed out on our couch,” he whispers urgently.

Louis frowns at him. “Well, he’s not _mine_. Get rid of him.”

“But I have to leave right now, Lou!” Liam huffs impatiently, checking his watch. “You’re going to have to deal with this one yourself.”

Louis hums imperiously and closes his eyes again, ignoring the suggestion entirely. He only knows Liam’s actually left when he hears the front door bang shut, their unwashed dishes jangling in the sink with the force of it. _Goddamn these spring-loaded dorm doors_ , Louis curses to himself. How he ever sleeps at night with the constant coming and going of his neighbors, he doesn’t know.

Eventually Louis hauls himself out of bed and trudges into the living room, where he’s somewhat surprised to actually find a strange, shirtless boy sprawled out across the couch. At least Liam hadn’t woken him up for some kind of ill-advised prank after all. The boy’s got a messy head of hair, scrapes on his chest crusted in dried blood, a butterfly tattoo on his tummy, and from where he’s standing all the way across the room, Louis can already tell he reeks of coconut rum.

“What the fuuuuck,” Louis mutters to himself. He recognizes the guy from around campus but Louis has no idea who he is, or how he managed to break into his apartment, drunk, sometime in the middle of the night, with neither him nor Liam realizing it.

Louis is contemplating just how to go about removing the intruder when his cat (and Liam’s oft-objected-to third roommate) starts sniffing around by the couch.

“Jerry!” Louis hisses. “Get away from there, Jesus Christ!”

Louis scurries across the room as soundlessly as he can and snatches Jerry up in his arms before the cat can go any further. As he backs up toward the kitchen with Jerry clutched to his chest, the boy on the couch starts to stir, a miserable groan escaping his lips.

 _He looks like the barfing type,_ Louis thinks, sighing resignedly. An unpleasant twist sinks down in his gut just then, and Louis suddenly gets the feeling he’s about to embark on a very long and very weird morning.

*

So it starts with the shirt, though _technically_ Harry doesn’t actually steal it. It was an old shirt, something Louis got for free at a soccer camp years ago, and he’d picked it out that morning under the express assumption that he was probably never going to see it again. He wasn’t missing the shirt, had almost forgotten he’d given it away in the first place, so when it shows up in front of his door a few days later, freshly laundered and folded neatly, Louis is a little surprised.

He stops in front of the door, eying the shirt suspiciously. There’s a piece of lined notebook paper folded in half and safety-pinned to the front of it, which reads “Louis” in a loopy script. Although Louis knows who the culprit of this is, he’s still a little wary, given the misfortunes of his last meeting with Harry. Gingerly, Louis picks up the parcel and carries it into his apartment.

He unfolds the note as he’s munching on some of the Oreos Liam left out on the counter.

 _Hi Louis,_ it reads, _Thanks again for the shirt, and for taking care of me last Sunday. And for not calling the police on me. I really appreciate that. I promise I’m not usually a trespasser or even drunk enough to break into apartments on most days. It was rush week, and I know that doesn’t excuse anything but I hope you can accept my apology anyway. I’m really embarrassed about it, if that’s any consolation. We definitely got off on the wrong foot – hopefully I can make it up to you somehow :)_

_Thanks again,_

_Harry_

Louis chuckles lightly under his breath, brushing cookie crumbs off the front of his shirt. What a charming letter. He wasn’t actually feeling any animosity toward Harry but if he had been, this note probably would have resolved it. Harry seems like a pretty decent guy, all breaking and entering aside.

Louis sets the letter on top of his and Liam’s ever-growing mail pile and shakes out his shirt, making sure Harry didn’t manage to bleed on it after all the work Louis put in patching him up. There’s no blood, Louis notes, but something else falls out of the shirt folds and clatters to the floor. Louis looks down at his feet with a frown. It’s a box of band-aids, and not just the shitty plain brown kind either. Spiderman band-aids.

Louis grins to himself.

*

After that, it seems like Harry is _everywhere_. Louis sees him walking in between classes, at the grocery store when he’s there to pick up milk, at the bar on Thursday for penny beers, attending yoga class at the Rec when Louis is there for practice, and even in Louis’ apartment building, visiting his friend Niall who supposedly lives next door. How they’d managed to never properly meet before is really a mystery, because he and Harry are around each other far more than Louis had initially assumed. In fact, they even have a _class_ together.

Louis has several reasons for why he never realized this before now. Firstly, it’s his eight a.m. Gen Psych lecture, and Louis is never awake enough to do more than squint uncomprehendingly at the PowerPoint for the better portion of that class. He’d needed to get the requirement out of the way and the 8 o’clock section had been the only one that coordinated with his schedule this semester. Louis has been vehement about how much he hates the class since the day he registered for it.

Secondly, to make up for his time spent dozing off through most of the lecture, Louis has seated himself in the second row of the auditorium in hopes of gleaning some information strictly via osmosis. Harry only sits a few rows behind him but with two hundred other students in the class, Louis had never had a reason to turn around and familiarize himself with his classmates before, so he’d never noticed him.

It’s in their Gen Psych class that Harry steals another thing from Louis.

Louis is just settling into his usual seat the Tuesday after receiving the note when he hears a delighted, “Hey, Louis!” called out from behind him. He turns around and is shocked to see Harry of drunken couch surfing fame getting up from his own seat and shuffling out of his row, apologizing to each person he knocks with his knobby knees as he goes.

He falls down into the empty seat next to Louis with a breathy laugh. “Didn’t know we had a class together,” he greets cheerfully, smiling wide.

Louis gapes at him. _Who messes up the seating arrangement two months into a class?_ he wonders, baffled. “Yeah. Hi,” he replies, ruffling his fingers through his bed-messy hair, knocking his hood off his head in the process.

Harry offers him another closed-lip smile but thankfully does not attempt to make any small talk at 7:56 a.m. When Harry starts digging around in the depths of his backpack, Louis puts his cheek in his palm, closes his eyes, and prepares himself for another sleep-inducing lesson on synapses.

He’s only distantly aware that their professor has started to drone on about axons and dendrites when Harry leans in close and whispers in Louis’ ear, “Lou, do you have a pencil I could use?”

 _Lou?_ Louis mouths to himself, eyes still closed. Who does this guy think he is? Sleep on Louis’ couch and barf in his toilet once and he thinks he can go around using nicknames? Unbelievable. Louis peels his eyes open and finds Harry staring back at him attentively. He’s got his notebook at the ready and a pen in his hand.

“That won’t work for you?” Louis asks incredulously, gesturing to the pen.

“I don’t like how it bleeds through,” Harry defends, brows furrowing in distaste. “I usually take all of my notes in pencil but I think I left mine in my last class.”

Louis heaves a sigh, put-upon, and bends down to paw through his backpack until he uncovers a mechanical pencil in one of the front pockets. It’s the fancy yellow kind that all of his elementary school teachers used to use – the only kind Louis deigns acceptable to write with – and he’s loathe to part with it. He gives it to Harry anyway, who offers him a thumbs-up and a smile in return, then begins frantically writing down all of the information from the slide in front of them.

Harry sits next to Louis every class period after that, but he never gives the pencil back.

*

The list of things Harry Styles steals from Louis Tomlinson over the next several weeks includes, but is not limited to the following items: three (3) strips of spearmint gum, taken in their time spent in Gen Psych together, the last piece of peach pie one evening when they bump into each other in the dining hall, Louis’ water bottle, which Harry claims he found in the lost and found but Louis insists he never lost in the first place, twelve (12) posters promoting the upcoming One Act Louis is in – Louis admits he had actually been handing those out on the quad, though twelve was far too many for one person to take – two (2) dollars Harry uses to buy them both cupcakes from a bake sale fundraiser, and most infuriatingly of all, too much of Louis’ damn _time_.

If Louis is bothered by all of the inane shit Harry steals from him though, which he most definitely is, it’s only because he’s begrudging endeared by this grinning, floppy-haired, fool of frat boy. Against everything he stands for regarding property law, Louis is actually _attracted_ to him. He thinks Harry is _cute_ and _nice_ and Louis _likes him_ even though he won’t stop taking all of his things. He wants Harry to steal even more of his time because when he’s with him, Louis feels like he doesn’t want to be anywhere else.

They’re sort of friends now, which is convenient for Louis’ blossoming crush. Looking back on it, the story of how they met is actually pretty funny, and they laugh about it sometimes as they walk to class together after Gen Psych, parting ways when Louis heads to the science building and Harry turns to go to his Contemporary Moral Theories class. (Louis makes a snide comment about a frat boy with a Philosophy major one day, and Harry informs him that he likes the juxtaposition and tells Louis to unlearn some stereotypes). Harry also introduces Louis to Niall, who really is his neighbor, as it turns out, and Louis, Liam, and Liam’s boyfriend Zayn start to make a point of meeting up with Niall and Harry whenever they go out. Harry comes over and hangs out at the apartment once or twice too – sober this time – so at the _bare minimum_ , he and Louis are at least at the “acknowledge each other on the sidewalk” level of friendship. Which is still a marked difference from before.

It takes additional thievery for things to go further.

Louis is alone in his apartment one night, steadily chugging through his Biology homework when he’s interrupted by a soft knock on his front door. He’s not expecting any visitors and Liam isn’t home, so he scoots his chair back from his desk with a frown and goes to crack open the door, peering out uncertainly. It’s Harry on the other side.

Louis’ shoulders sag with relief and his smile brightens. “You’re using the door now, I see,” he remarks, opening the door wider.

Harry just grins at him. “Do you have any sugar?” he asks in greeting. “I’m over at Niall’s baking cookies for my exec meeting tomorrow but we ran out.”

Like Louis should have expected anything less from Harry. “Well me and Li aren’t really the baking type but I can look. Come on in,” he says, ushering Harry inside. Even though he’s definitely never going to get _sugar_ back, Louis doesn’t even stop to consider why he keeps giving in to Harry in the first place.

While he goes to rummage through the kitchen cabinets, Harry stays behind in the living room, crouching down to pet Jerry as he twines around his legs.

“Hey there, Jerry Seinfeld,” he greets, rubbing his knuckles behind the cat’s ears.

From inside the cupboard, Louis’ eye gives an involuntary twitch. “I _told_ you, it’s like Jerry from Tom and Jerry,” he calls, finally locating a barely used bag of sugar in the back and turning around with it. “ _Not_ Seinfeld.”

“Louis,” Harry says, leveling him with a deprecating look. “I keep telling you, it’s Tom Cat and Jerry Mouse. You’ve got this all wrong.”

Louis chuckles darkly to himself, cursing the very day Harry Styles decided to fall in through his window. “How much of this did you say you needed?” he asks, ignoring Harry’s comment altogether.

“A cup should do.”

Louis was lucky to have sugar on hand at all – a measuring cup is just too much to ask for. He pours what he estimates to be a cup of sugar into a cereal bowl and passes it on to Harry.

“Thanks, Lou,” Harry says, smiling at him warmly.

They chat for a bit longer, leaning into each other on their elbows from opposite sides of the kitchen counter, until Niall stomps across the hall and starts pounding on Louis’ door, yelling at Harry about burning cookies. Harry flushes adorably over having lost track of time and leaves Louis to his studying with a tiny smile and a wave.

The stolen cereal bowl is back at Louis’ door by the next night, filled with frosted sugar cookies and covered in cling wrap. A tented note sits on top of it, which simply reads “ _I.O.U._ ” Louis doesn’t miss the tiny heart scribbled off to the side either.

*

A few weeks later Sigma Tau Gamma throws a Halloween party, and Louis decides that he must attend. Knowing full well that he’s walking straight into prime Harry Styles stomping grounds, he brings Liam with as backup.

Which is his first mistake it seems, because it’s at the Sig Tau Halloween party that Harry steals Louis’ best friend.

They go dressed as Batman and Robin at Liam’s insistence – “If you’re going to make me go to a frat party, of all the places to go on Halloween, we are going to wear my costumes, Louis! And you’re Robin, end of discussion.” Louis had only agreed to the outfits because he really wanted to be at this party and wasn’t going to go alone. He feels appropriately demeaned, demoted to sidekick, but he’s not all that annoyed about the getup. He knows how good he looks in leggings.

As they make their way through the crowded frat house, Louis’ first surprise of the night comes in the form of the twelve stolen One Act posters he counts, posted in each of the rooms they pass through. That makes Louis feel a bit blushy, imagining Harry going around and hanging them up knowing that Louis is the lead in the play. He doesn’t try to think very hard on what the gesture means, though.

Louis’ second surprise of the night is Harry himself, who pounces on Louis’ back unexpectedly as soon as he and Liam reach the basement, drinks in hand.

“Louis!” he shouts right into Louis’ ear, squeezing him tight. “You caaaame!”

“Yup, sure did,” Louis replies, holding his sloshing drink away from his body so it doesn’t spill all over his shirt.

Of all the people Louis was expecting to see enthusiastically in costume tonight, Harry had been at the very top of his list. He’s a bit disappointed when he sets Harry down and turns around to find him dressed in only tight black jeans and a sheer black top. Which is a good look that Louis very much appreciates, but he can think of at least seven, even better outfits he’d like to see Harry in too.

“Where’s your costume?” Louis shouts, leaning in close enough to be heard over the pounding music.

“I’m a cat!” Harry yells back happily. “See?” He bends over and points at the top of his head. Among the springy curls, frizzy and unkempt from the humid heat pouring from the dance floor, Louis spots a pair of black cat ears.

“Oh, I see now!” Louis smiles. He reaches up and gently separates the waves of Harry’s hair until the ears are visible again. Harry’s curls are soft, and they slip through Louis’ fingers like corn silk.

When he’s finished, Harry stands up straight again and looks down at Louis, an awed sort of smile frozen on his face.

“You look good!” Louis nods, waggling his fingers at Harry’s entire being.

Harry shakes himself out of his daze to give Louis an answering onceover. “You too!” he shouts back with a smirk. “Love the outfit!”

“Fuck off!” Louis scowls. “It was Liam’s idea!”

Harry throws his head back and cackles. He finally seems to realize Liam is actually standing next to them then and turns to offer him a requisite, “You look nice too, Liam!”

Liam just rolls his eyes – Louis lives for making him an uncomfortable third wheel. He's had to suffer through years of third wheeling for him and Zayn though, so he doesn’t feel very guilty at all about dragging Liam along to this party.

“Come on!” Harry yells, tugging on Louis’ arm. “Let’s go daaaance!”

“No way, man. I need at least one and half more of these before I do any dancing!” Louis laughs, holding up his drink.

Harry frowns grumpily for a moment. “How about we just find you a couple of shots and call it even?” he suggests.

“Nah, just go on without me. I’ll find you after I mingle for a bit.”

“Suit yourself,” Harry shrugs. “Liam?”

Liam, who had been bopping in place to the beat since they walked into the establishment, responds with an enthusiastic, “Fuck yeah, let’s go!” and lets himself be hauled out into the sweaty masses.

Louis is shocked and a little insulted. If it were _him_ wanting to go dance, Liam would’ve dragged his heels all the way to the dance floor, complaining the whole time. But of course _Harry_ can convince him just by flashing a pair of dimples and a smile. What is it with this guy and stealing all of Louis’ things? Liam is supposed to be here to protect him – from what, Louis isn’t certain, but probably from Harry taking any more of his stuff. Liam is definitely not accomplishing that by giving in to Harry’s wiles and letting _himself_ get stolen away.

Louis takes a couple laps around the room, chatting and drinking and keeping an eye on Harry and Liam goofily dancing around each other as he goes. Once he’s run out of people to mingle with and finished his one and half drinks, Louis finds a counter top littered with garbage to dispose of his cup, then stalks into the crowd, eyes locked on a pair of noodle limbs waving about in the air.

He up-nods at Liam once when he reaches the two of them and Liam nods back, making a swift exit like the good wingman that he is; Louis has trained him so well. Harry halts his Molly Ringwald hopping just long enough to notice that Louis has arrived, and his entire face lights up when he sees him. Their eyes meet, Harry grins, and it’s at that moment that the music fades from some Top 40 banger into a more sultry sounding song, something with slow, licking bass lines and heavy chords. Harry widens his eyes at Louis, like he’s not sure what exactly he’s allowed to do with him given the song selection. For Louis it’s not much of a question, and he doesn’t hesitate to turn around, back up, and press the length of his body firmly against Harry’s front.

Louis is a good dancer and he knows it too, although most of his time on the dance floor is usually spent goofing off, not showing off. Tonight though, it’s different. This is what those drinks had been for, after all: for Louis to be able to shamelessly grind up on Harry without overthinking it. As he starts swiveling his hips to the music, Louis feels Harry bring his hands down to rest tentatively at his waist and _yes,_ everything is going according to plan now.

In the middle of the massive crowd, surrounded by moving bodies, the heavy heat that settles around them is dense and cloying. Sweat has already started gathering at the collar of Louis’ shirt and he’s only been out on the floor for all of ten seconds. Between the stifling temperature and the alcohol coursing through his system, Louis feels everything begin to move in slow motion – his and Harry’s bodies as they move slowly against each other, Harry’s arm sneaking all the way around his waist to hold him impossibly closer, the undulation of the crowd under the flickering of the strobe light. The press of their bodies is searing, shirts sticking together and Harry’s mouth hot where he breathes at the curve of Louis’ neck.

Louis feels like he’s panting, like the humid air isn’t providing enough oxygen, like Harry being this close and _present_ has left him entirely short of breath. He feels like a livewire, an exposed nerve, acutely aware of every place him and Harry are touching, of the drop of sweat trickling down his spine, of the fizzy numbness of his lips and fingertips from the vodka limes he’d been drinking before. The moment is dripping when Louis reaches an arm up behind himself and grabs hold of the back of Harry’s neck, his fingers slipping through the wet, delicate curls resting there. The move brings Harry even closer, and the sudden feeling of his lips against Louis’ throat is accompanied by an excited thrill that leaps up from somewhere deep inside Louis’ chest.

It would be so easy for Louis to turn his head and just kiss him. Louis feels like it would almost be a relief to do it, to give into this month’s long give-and-take he and Harry have been edging around. Louis shudders out an uncharacteristic breath of nerves and he’s going to do it, he’s going to kiss Harry, but it’s right then that the song that’s drawn them so close together is suddenly interrupted by seven twangy guitar chords, shocking them apart. Harry pulls away so abruptly that Louis almost falls over, and his heart lurches too. For a split second, he’s worried he’s come on too strong; that Harry’s snapped out of his trance and realized he doesn’t want to be near Louis at all, until from behind him he hears Harry screech, “Oh my _god_!”

He grabs Louis by the waist again and spins him around. Harry’s gorgeously flushed, hair a mess, eyes bright and wild as he screams, “I _love_ Shania Twain!” directly into Louis’ face.

Louis chokes out an astonished laugh, nearly knocked over by his relief. He wants to kiss Harry now more than ever before, watching him belt out every line of “Man! I Feel Like A Woman!” without missing a single note or word. Together, they dance like they don’t have another care in the whole world, throwing their arms around each other and singing very loudly and very off-key. They grab onto each other’s hands and take turns twirling each other under their arms in fast, tight circles. They throw their hands in the air and jump up and down, screaming, “Oh, oh, oh, go totally crazy, forget I'm a lady,” like they’ve never heard a better song in their entire lives.

When Louis can’t seem to find his breath again, it’s because he’s laughing so hard his cheeks hurt. He feels completely uninhibited, elated by the pure joy of dancing around like drunken fools with this boy, singing along to a song he hasn’t heard in years with an entire basement’s full of people’s voices raised around him. Louis is so happy he could burst with it. When the song finishes and Harry turns around again, dimples on display and positively glowing, Louis can’t help but throw himself into his arms, burying his euphoric laughter into Harry’s shoulder.

Right then, on Halloween night in the sweaty Sig Tau basement, as he and Harry hold onto each other so happily and so tight, Louis feels a little bit like he’s falling in love.

*

Midterm week hits campus like an anvil, bringing along with it a scourge of highly caffeinated, half-dead students and decidedly poor time management skills. By Tuesday, Louis is left hanging on to what little remains of his sanity by a single thread of self-preservation, a wilting obligation to his GPA, and a steady supply of remarkably mediocre weed. He’s got two labs, two papers and an exam to muddle through yet, and he’s just trying to make it home to his family alive.

Now, as he’s walking to the library through the pouring rain, Louis can’t help but think that the weather is all-too fitting for a man who’s been completely stripped of his will to live by academia. He doesn’t have a raincoat, only the same gray hoodie he hasn’t taken off for the last three days, and he’s getting absolutely soaked. Louis is only vaguely annoyed about it though – he’s got other things on his mind. Like how utterly unprepared he is to bullshit this Psych paper due in twelve hours. Even if he hadn’t essentially slept through the first quarter of the class, sitting next to Harry had also proven to be very detrimental to Louis’ attention span. He has to write three thousand words about Enlightenment and the history of psychology tonight and he doesn’t even know how to _pronounce_ Descartes.

Entering the library, Louis wrings out his sweatshirt on the front mat then heaves himself up the stairs to the second floor, making his way to the philosophy and psychology section. After all his time spent working in the library to fulfill his scholarship hours, Louis feels accomplished in being able to say he now has complete mastery over the Dewey decimal system. He’s just pondering whether or not he should include that particular achievement on his résumé when he turns into the stacks and promptly trips over a pair of long, sprawled legs taking up the entire aisle.

“What the fuck do you –” he catches himself on a shelf but cuts off his rant when he sees who it is he’s just tripped over. “Oh. Hi, Harry.”

Harry looks as damp as Louis feels, his clothes sagging off his body and his hair pulled up into what appears to be a messy bun of defeat. He’s surrounded by books; old, smelly ones with cracked spines and some newer copies too, their stiff pages held down by various heavy objects taken from his backpack. The one lying upside down in his lap, Louis can’t help but notice, is the exact book he needs to write his paper.

Of course it is.

Louis is just about to make a smart remark about it but all the fight completely drains out of him when Harry looks up at him, eyes red-rimmed and a dejected expression on his face.

“Hey, Lou,” he greets dolefully, then turns back to his book.

It’s a heartbreaking sight. When Louis had last seen Harry the week before, he had been his usual chipper, charming self, riding up to Louis on his bike, _brrrng_ -ing the handlebar bell incessantly to get his attention, then demanding that Louis swipe him into the dining hall. Louis, of course, had obliged, too goo-goo eyed to realize just how easily he’s started letting _himself_ get stolen from. Even Harry’s hair looks lifeless now, his tits are completely covered, and _everything is_ _all wrong,_ Louis thinks. No one as bright and beautiful as Harry should ever look so browbeaten.

Louis hastily shucks his backpack off and drops it to the side, lowering himself clumsily to the floor to sit opposite of Harry. He spreads his legs so they rest on each side of Harry’s, tucking him in with his calves pressed to his thighs. Their position gives Harry the perfect opportunity kick Louis straight in the balls, but Louis knows he won’t.

“Hey,” he murmurs gently, nudging Harry’s hip with the toe of his wet sneaker. “You okay?”

Harry heaves a long, sorrowful sigh. “Noooo,” he moans and throws his head back against the shelf behind him. “I’ve got three tests this week that I’ve barely even started studying for, a group presentation to do tomorrow, this _fucking unwritable_ paper on Cartesian Dualism, and I just can’t do it _,_ Louis. I can’t do it all,” he wails. “And I fucking _hate_ French philosophers and –”

“Whoa, whoa,” Louis cuts in, gesturing at him with open palms, placating. Harry looks frustrated and near tears already. “Take a deep breath, Harry. It’s going to be fine.”

Harry sucks in a shuddery breath and exhales it slowly, closing his eyes with his head still rested back on the bookshelf. He scrubs a hand over his face and rubs at his temples; Louis has to resist the urge to crawl across the space between them and do it for him.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles from under his hand. “I’m just. Freaking out a little.”

“You don’t say,” Louis quips.

Harry drops his hand to pout at him. “What are you here for anyway?” he asks. “Sorry, but I just don’t really have the time to hang out tonight.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Louis assures. “I’m here for that, actually.” He points at the book, facedown on Harry’s knees.

Harry frowns, looking at the cover. “What do you need to read about Descartes for?”

 _So that’s how you pronounce it,_ Louis thinks. “Our dumb Psych class,” he answers. When Harry looks even more confused, Louis adds warily, “For our midterm paper? On history and systems?”

Harry processes that bit of information for about three seconds before exploding with a, “Holy shit! That’s due tomorrow?!”

Louis nods gravely. He’s afraid Harry really is going to burst into tears now, but instead he goes straight to shock. Which is a bit more concerning, with the way his eyes start to glaze over.

“Harry…?” Louis questions hesitantly, trying to meet his faraway stare.

Harry laughs once, a bit hysterically. “I feel like I should just give up.”

“Well don’t do that,” Louis frowns. “In just a couple days you’ll be looking back on this week wondering how you managed to survive it. But you will live through it, Harry, promise. We’ve done this a few times before, right? We always manage to pull it out of our asses somehow.”

Harry nods weakly, a small smile upturning one corner of his mouth.

Louis kicks at his hip again. “When did you say this paper of yours was due?” he asks.

“Thursday.”

“And you’re working on it _now?_ ” Louis exclaims, eyes bulging. “Don’t you know these things are only supposed to get done the night before they’re due, in a fit of blind self-loathing?”

Harry actually cackles, a shouting sound that echoes around the quiet of the library and ends when he smacks a surprised hand over his mouth.

Louis pauses for a moment, just silently gazing at Harry with a dumb, fond look on his face. Then he makes a decision.

“Tell you what,” he says, leaning forward and gently prying the book out of Harry’s hand. “I’m going to take this and go home and write my Psych paper, and _you’re_ going to find a different topic – not Descartes because, like I said, I’m taking this book – and write _your_ Psych paper. And then, after you’re done, you’re going to go _home_ and worry about your other stuff _tomorrow._ Because,” Louis insists, ”Babe, you really need to sleep. You look terrible.”

Harry snorts. “Thanks, man.”

“I’m not finished yet,” Louis says. He deposits the book in his backpack, zips it closed, then slowly moves forward on his hands and knees, crawling over Harry’s outstretched legs until he’s straddling his thighs. Harry’s eyes stay locked on him the whole time, widening ever so slightly as he gets closer and closer. “ _Then_ ,” Louis continues, “When this is all over and we’ve both survived our midterms, and you’ve done amazingly because I know you will,” he places both of his palms on the sides of Harry’s face, smoothing his thumbs over the tender skin under his eyes, “You’re going to come and find me, and we’ll celebrate.”

“Mmmm,” Harry agrees seriously, now staring at Louis’ lips unabashedly. “And what will we do to celebrate?”

“Probably a lot of this,” Louis says, and pulls Harry forward until their lips meet.

It’s a slow kiss, something soft and unhurried in the midst of the frenzied pressure of midterm week. It feels like finally getting a full night’s rest on a pillowtop mattress, or waking up to a day without obligations; like a weight lifted off Louis’ shoulders, a relief. For a moment, Louis forgets that he’s even stressed at all as their lips and tongues move together in a warm, wet slide, sending shivers dancing down his spine. Harry brings a hand up to grip lightly at the small between Louis’ shoulder blades, drawing him in even closer. Louis goes to run his fingers through the length of Harry’s hair like he's always wanted, but stops when he reaches the bun – another time, maybe.

They kiss, hands gently roaming, until Louis decides he has more to talk about. “And another thing,” he says, separating their lips with an abrupt _smack_. Harry whines quietly at the loss of contact. “You have _got_ to stop stealing all of my shit, Harry Styles. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

Harry tucks his lips into his mouth, trying and failing to hide a smirk. “It wasn’t on purpose,” he drawls, voice deep and honeyed from their kiss.

“Was it, really?”

“Well,” he concedes, threading a lock of Louis’ hair behind his ear and smiling. “Maybe a little. I returned most of it, though. Or replaced it with something better.”

“Still,” Louis says. “It’s the principle of the matter.”

“Mmhmm,” Harry agrees absently, and leans in for one, two more firm kisses. “I see where you’re coming from, but there’s just one more thing I need to steal from you,” he says, punctuating his words with a kiss brushed at the corner of Louis’ mouth.

“Yeah? And what’s that?”

Harry beams up at him softly, earnestly. “Your heart.”

Louis can only groan. _Awful,_ he thinks, struggling to hold back his smile. _Just awful._ He pulls further away and plops down on Harry’s knees, faking an unimpressed scowl. “I’m going to give you one chance to correct that,” he says coolly.

Harry’s eyes widen comically in alarm. “Please date me,” he blurts, frantic. His fingers twitch once, softly squeezing at Louis’ waist where his palms have come to rest. Like he thinks Louis might actually leave.

Louis does laugh now. “Of course I will,” he says, shaking his head in exasperation then kissing Harry again and again and again.

Their kisses are not so hesitant this time, filled with more intent, more heat. Harry cranes his neck up to meet Louis, deepening the kiss and wrapping both of his arms around him, splaying his hands across his back to hold him close. Louis keeps him there with a light, teasing grip on the back of neck, fingers hooked behind his ears, whimpering softly as they lick into each other’s mouths. The way they move together – the way they _fit_ together – feels so familiar and right, Louis thinks, that it’s almost as if they’ve done this countless times before. It makes Louis’ tummy flutter, and he can’t help but imagine what they could get up to right now, if only they had a bed. And some free time.

Harry, apparently having found himself on a similar train of thought, forces Louis into pulling away first when he goes for a very publically inappropriate grip on his ass. “Okay, _okay_ ,” Louis relents, their fingers accidentally twining together when he reaches back and plucks Harry’s hand out of his pants. “I really am leaving now.”

Harry pouts, refusing to let go of Louis’ hand as he swings off his lap and attempts to stand up. “But you’ve distracted me,” he complains. “I don’t want to write papers now. I am very distracted.”

“Which is why I’m _leaving_ ,” Louis stresses, leaning down to peck one last kiss on Harry’s lips before he shakes himself out of his grip. “And then when I’m gone you can go jerk off in the bathroom and get focused again.”

“After one measly kiss?” Harry scoffs. “Unnecessary. You think far too highly of yourself.”

“It was the best kiss of your life,” Louis snarls, hefting his bag onto his shoulder as he backs away. “And you should feel honored that I made out with you in the stacks at all. I hate clichés.”

Harry grins up at him. “I do. I really do.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis chuckles. “Write your paper, Styles,” he says, pointing a stern finger at him.

Harry nods his head seriously, making a big production of frantically shuffling around the books and papers surrounding him. Louis finally turns away, laughing, feeling lighter than he ever thought a late night trip to the library would allow. But then again, Harry’s always been a little unconventional about these things.

* *

Harry’s been through a nightmare of a week the morning he wakes up in Louis Tomlinson’s bed. After spending days on end holed up in the library without any regular human contact (apart from Louis, that is, who occasionally stopped by to bring him the muffins he stole from the dining hall and some kisses too), opening his eyes to unfiltered morning sun streaming in through the blinds and a warm body holding him close is a real treat for Harry. There’s a fresh, cool breeze whispering in through the window, raising goosebumps on Harry’s skin and making him curl further into Louis’ embrace. It’s not stale library air though, and the room doesn’t smell like suffering, so it’s instantly rejuvenating.

There’s something to be said about waking up with a smile already on your face, Harry thinks, stretching out languidly from his fingers down to his toes. And it has nothing to do with the fact that he got laid last night either. No, it’s definitely because he’s waking up to his first day of a worry-free midterm break – one with no homework or Sig Tau duties, only beautiful mornings and this boy, this boy who Harry’s been subtly trying to woo for months now. Maybe too subtly, according to Niall, who had primly informed Harry that, “There is nothing about taking all of his stuff that implies you want to ‘kiss his face forever.’ You’re bonkers.” But what does Niall know anyway? Nothing, apparently. Harry can’t help but feel a little smug about it as Louis stirs in bed beside him, looping his arm more tightly around his waist to keep him close while Harry stretches in place.

Harry rolls over to face him when he’s finished, still smiling softly, and watches Louis slowly blink his eyes open. They’re bleary but still so bright, small crinkles settling in the corners when he smiles back at him. Harry untangles his hand from under the covers and brings it up to hold Louis’ cheek, leaning in for one tender, closed-mouth kiss, soft like their bare skin brushing, easy as the morning light.

When he pulls away, drowsy and warm and holding Louis so close, Harry privately wishes it were possible to steal away moments in time, just so he might be able to revisit this one again some day. But then again, as Louis drops kisses in a line up from his shoulder to the hinge of his jaw, finally tucking his nose into Harry’s neck and drifting back to sleep in his arms, Harry thinks that maybe this moment’s already been _given_ to him. That maybe it’s only the first of many moments he and Louis will have together – one of many moments that Harry will get to keep forever. Quiet mornings and bowls of sugar and sweeter kisses, all starting with one wrong window.

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr](http://mooodlighting.tumblr.com/) \- [fic post](http://mooodlighting.tumblr.com/post/124430037605/call-me-a-thief-by-moodlighting-harry-louis-8k)


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